She kills things.
"Roses are red, the violets are dead.”
She stopped, looked at her toes as she spoke.
Moving at full speed, Her hair flowed from her head .
The door suddenly ****** open, against the vase, which She broke.
Quickly, running, fast up the steps, to find Her granddad
She knew she was is in trouble, forgetting her grandparents warning.
Where the violets had been, there was a shimmering, growing lake.
She saw the garden, in full sun, that she watered that morning.
Bored, across the yard She skipped to count, how many would it take?
Surely done, it was playtime, strawberry stained lips, and no one around.
They left Her there to tidy up, shut off the water, and pick strawberries.
They put Her to work in the flower garden full of colour, and a few bees.
Grandpa said to Grandma, “that girl has a lot of cheek."
She said,"Roses have thorns, violets are weak”
She was the garden tempest.
Backwards story leads to poetry.
I may have missed this by a long ways, but I am glad I am no where near this spooky child.